


Maybe "Well, F*ck You Too" Will Be Our Always

by hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove



Series: Better Camelate Than Never [7]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Balinor and Hunith are alive and together and happy, Day 7: Free Day, F/M, Gen, Kilgharrah the Garbage Truck, Merlin is a Little Shit, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Trigger Warning for Allonormativity, and, arophobia, as they should be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 06:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30017349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove/pseuds/hidden_snitch_in_an_alcove
Summary: Everyone has a soulmate.Merlin's is Arthur.
Relationships: Balinor/Hunith (Merlin), Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot (Merlin), Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Merlin & Will (Merlin)
Series: Better Camelate Than Never [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2209551
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: Camelove 2021





	Maybe "Well, F*ck You Too" Will Be Our Always

When Merlin’s father had found out his son was colour blind, he’d burst into tears. The forty three year old, tough as nails, body-building bin man had choked out a sob, dropped to his knees and pulled the toddler to his chest, laughing like an utter lunatic. 

“Get _off_ me, Dad,” the child had probably whined, the actual words lost to the Hi-Vis plastic his face had been smushed against. Balinor had obeyed anyway, despite the ambiguity, gripping his young son by the shoulders and holding him an arms-length away, grinning with tangible pride. 

“Sorry, son,” Balinor had said, voice gruff from his tears, “I’m just so-” His voice had shuddered “- so _happy_ for you.” 

Merlin had scrunched up his nose. He’d pulled another clump of half-melted smarties from his pocket (this is what had given up the game, when Balinor had asked him for a blue one and Merlin had looked at his father like he’d asked him to pick up the nearest wheelie bin and tip it’s contents out onto his head) and shoved it in his mouth, not bothering to swallow before he asked: “Why?” 

“Because one day,” Balinor had explained in hushed tones, too overjoyed to be disgusted at the milk chocolate painting his son’s piddly milk teeth, “you’ll meet someone very, very special, and when you do, and you make eye contact, you’ll see colour for the _very first time_.” 

“Who’m I meeting?” Merlin had gushed, wide-eyed. His father had grinned, leaning in like he was revealing the world’s greatest secret.

“ _Your_ _soulmate_.” 

Three year old Merlin had blinked, frowned, licked chocolate from the sides of his mouth (only succeeding in spreading it further) and then stared at his Dad in confusion. 

“Wozza soulmate?"

“Hm…” Balinor had stroked his beard. (Merlin had decided then that _he_ was going to grow a beard, just so that he could stroke it too. Like a pet hamster, but on his face.) “You know how me and your mother love each other very much?” Merlin had nodded. “Your soulmate will be someone you’ll love very much, too, just like me and your mum.” 

Merlin had thought about his parents, and what a love like theirs meant. He’d pictured them kissing, because they do that a lot, even when the other mums and dads at TGI Fridays would give them dirty looks for it and the waiters would stand and make awkward eye contact with the only unengaged, but very much three-year old customer, asking if they were ready to order (if his parents didn’t want fish fingers and potato smileys, well, then, they should pay more attention). 

In any case, Merlin had decided that he Did Not Want A Soulmate because Soulmates Sound Gross, and he told Balinor as much, with the appropriate “Ew, Cooties” expression of disgust. Balinor had laughed, heaved his son onto his shoulders, and loped merrily over to the next set of bins down on the street. 

“Everyone thinks so at your age,” he’d assured, patting Merlin on his dragon-socked ankle. “You’ll change your mind when you’re older. Just you wait and see.” 

Merlin is now a whole five months older (he’s four years and two months old, to be exact) and still thinks the whole concept of soulmates is a steaming pile of poop (“don’t let your mum hear you say that,” Balinor had urged, even when Merlin had insisted that no politer phrasing would have the _exact_ right level of impact). 

It’s his very first day of school; his polo collar is pressed, his jumper as neatly arranged as it can be when he’s practically drowning in it (“He’ll grow into it, Bal,” “Are you just planning on _never_ buying him another jumper for his entire school career?” “So what if I am? I like getting my money’s worth.” “Just order something off the McDonald’s saver sodding menu, not turn your kid into a _laughing stock_ -”). His brand new bookbag, with the shiny school logo printed on the front, is gripped in his little fist, and the new scarf Hunith had knitted him is wrapped around his neck for good luck, even though the weather is still milking the last dregs of Summer, which means he’s boiling a bit underneath it and his neck is uncomfortably damp. Not that a little sweat can douse his happy mood. 

What can, however, is the sight of a group of older kids throwing sticks at a smaller, stickish boy, right there in the middle of the playground, with no one stepping in to help. As usual, this leaves Merlin to order the fish fingers all by himself, aka _take matters into his own hands_. 

“Oi! Leave him alone!” 

The group, as one, pauses and turns to face him, but Merlin rushes past them without looking, crouching by their cowering victim, who’s gawping at him with wide, dumbfounded eyes. “Are you alright?” Merlin asks quietly. The boy nods, but doesn’t say anything, so Merlin pats him on the shoulder like his Dad does for him, and tries to deepen his voice to sound Adultish and Reassuring. “Don’t let them get you down, yeah? They’re just a bunch of asses.” The boy’s eyes go even wider, if that’s even possible, and Merlin sort of wonders whether, if he keeps speaking, they’ll pop right out of the boy’s head. He then decides that, as cool as that would be, he probably needs his eyes intact in order to avoid more bullies in the future. So he drags the boy to his feet by the arm with nothing more than a smile, and the boy stumbles off, slightly dazed, to stand in his class’ line. 

Once Merlin is satisfied that the boy is out of harm’s way, he turns back to the bullies with his hands on his hips and a disapproving scowl that he thinks would cow his own Mum. 

“What ‘you do that for, then?” he demands. “What’s he ever done to you?” 

The bullies snicker, nudging each other as they glance mockingly between Merlin and each other. Merlin scowls. 

Then one of the boys steps forwards, smirking meanly, pinning Merlin’s eyes with his own, scathingly blue ones. 

...Wait. 

_Blue?_

The realisation seems to hit the other boy at the same time as it does Merlin, because one minute his face is the picture of smug arseholery, and the next it’s one of unadulterated horror. And then Merlin finds himself sprawled on the ground, the blue-eyed boy standing over him with a disgusted sneer. 

“Stay out of my way,” he spits, before whipping around and stomping back to his jeering cronies, neck bright red and knuckles white where they’re clenched into fists. His backpack is a really ugly shade of green, because of course one of the first colours Merlin had to see thanks to his _soulmate_ was one that made him regret being able to see colour at all. 

Although having _this_ wanker as his soulmate on its own was plenty to make him wish he could’ve just lived in shades of grey until he was old enough to need a stick to walk. Like Old Man Simmons from next door. Thinking of sticks, having one to wallop his soulmate with - again, like Old Man Simmons - sounded very appealing right now.

...Hang on. 

Merlin flips to the side, grabbing one of the sticks that the boys had thrown earlier and lobs it at the back of Blue-Eyes’ head. 

Blue-Eyes goes very, very still. 

Merlin gulps, but he scrambles to his feet and lifts his chin to show that he’s _very unafraid_ of a few cowardly bullies (he thinks his Dad’s beard would have come in handy here, because Balinor is _super_ scary, but supposes his Mum’s lucky scarf will have to do) then hollers at his soulmate’s back: “Fight me, you _arse!_ ” 

Slowly, his soulmate bends over to pick up the stick, then turns on his heel, his own chin raised haughtily, blue eyes flashing with threat, to face Merlin. The smirk is firmly, infuriatingly, back in place. 

“Come on, then,” he goads, “be my _guest_.” 

And then he attacks. 

The next few minutes are a bit of a blur, schoolkids standing around yelling various encouragements, tips and “I’m telling on you’s” as the two soulmates roll around on the tarmac, throwing clumsy but enthusiastic punches at each other until someone eventually _does_ tell on them and they’re both dragged to the Headteacher’s office, wet paper towels pressed to their scrapes and bruises, and weighed down by the instruction to await their judgement. 

Merlin slumps in the waiting chair, pulling at a loose thread in the blue upholstery and wondering just how many days it’ll be that he’s going to be parted from his Nintendo 64 for getting in trouble _this_ time. If it’s any more than two, he’ll run away to stay with Uncle Gaius for the rest of his life. 

He looks across the corridor at his soulmate, who doesn’t seem all that bothered by the fact that they’re about to be told off by the _sodding_ _Headteacher_ and is, instead, sucking on a lollipop that- wait. 

“Where’d you get that?” 

His soulmate drags the lollipop from his lips with an obnoxious sucking _pop_ , grinning smugly. 

“Mr Monmouth gave it to me,” he preens. “That’s the _secretary’s_ name.” 

“I knew that,” Merlin grumbles. He didn’t, actually, but he doesn’t want his stupid soulmate to think _Merlin’s_ the stupid one. He huffs. “I’m gonna tell the Headmaster that you started it.”

Somehow, his stupid soulmate’s stupid grin grows even bigger. It’s a good thing, Merlin grouses, that his stupid head is big enough to fit it. 

“He’s not going to believe you,” his soulmate sing-songs, swinging his slobbery lollipop upside-down by the stick like a pendulum. 

“Why wouldn’t he?” Merlin snaps. 

“Do you know who I am?” 

“An ass.” He puffs up a little in pride at his comeback, but the next words out of his soulmate’s stupid, sticky mouth make him deflate with a dreadful sense of Doom. 

“I,” his soulmate drawls, “am Arthur Pendragon. The Headteacher’s _son_.” 

And then they’re called into the office. 

Merlin ends up being sent home early, barely half an hour into his first day of school. He pouts, ripping off the red scarf from his mother and balling it in his lap. It obviously wasn’t as lucky as she’d told him it was. 

Balinor is clearly not happy with his son’s behaviour, and the whole time he’s bungling Merlin into Kilgharrah - his crusty old garbage truck - he keeps going on and on and on about how fighting is Very Inappropriate and how Merlin Should Know Better. Merlin himself is too preoccupied with trying to work out if the eye-watering colour of his Dad’s Hi-Vis jacket is a really gross green or a really gross yellow to pay much attention, but he waits until Balinor falls silent to reach into the pocket of his grey school trousers and pull out a pile of blue smarties that he’d separated from the others while being yelled at by Mr Pendragon. He holds the smarties out for Balinor to take. 

“I’ve decided,” he says solemnly, “that blue is my very least favourite colour.” 

Balinor gapes between his son’s stern, chubby face and the all-blue smarties sitting in a congealed lump in his clammy palm, and then the implication hits him and he bursts into tears. 

Merlin rolls his eyes and dumps the sweets in his Dad’s lap, blocking out the warbles of “you’ve found them, you’ve found them” by cloud spotting and daydreaming up ways to wipe that stupid smirk off Arthur’s stupid smug face. 

* * *

That night, knelt on the desk chair before the family computer, he scans behind himself to check that his parents aren’t in the room and clicks away from _3D Pinball Space Cadet_ to a tab open with the search “How to get rid of soulmates”. 

He clicks on the first link and squints at the screen, trying to decipher the too-big words. 

“Y… yuh… _ooh_ … uh… You!” He grins, pleased with himself and his deciphering abilities. 

It takes him about half an hour to figure out the first few sentences, but by the time he’s called for tea, he’s pretty sure he knows the answer to his Blue-Eyed Problem. He smiles through mouthfuls of over boiled cabbage, too chuffed to even pull a face at his parents as they attempt to eat each other rather than their dinner (right in front of his salad) like he normally would. 

* * *

The next morning, he’s allowed back at school. Though he’s raring to finally learn (though given his super reading skill last night, he’ll probably be the one teaching the _teachers_ ), as is the first order of business, he marches up to Arthur, pokes him on the shoulder until he spins around with a snarled _“what”_ and announces, plainly; 

“I reject you.” 

Arthur blinks at him, but not one to be upstaged, splutters; 

“Yeah, well- I reject you too!” 

Merlin shrugs.

“Fine.” 

“Fine!” 

They nod at each other, scowl at their unintended synchrony and then go their separate ways. 

  
When he gets home, Merlin tells his Dad that he’d rejected his soulmate, and, predictably, Balinor cries. As much as he tells his parents that he never wanted a soulmate anyway, they still scold him for being rash, because “you’ll regret this when you want love one day” and “you should’ve asked us before you made that decision” and “we are both very disappointed in you, Merlin”. Merlin cries at the last one, which is when they finally stop telling him off, wrap him in blankets and stick him in front of the telly. He sits, squished between them, and for the rest of the evening, the Ambrose family watch _Countryfile_ in silence and nibble on rich tea biscuits, which aren’t half as good when not soggy with English Breakfast, but they’re out of tea bags because Balinor didn’t go to Tesco the previous day because he had to pick Merlin up from school because Merlin had gotten sent home for picking a fight with his soulmate. 

Former soulmate. 

Merlin starts crying again. 

“Hey, hey,” Balinor whispers, thumbing away the fat tears rolling down his son’s reddened cheek. “It’s alright, lad. C’mere-” He drags the ball of blanketed Merlin into his lap, bouncing the hiccuping bundle on his leg and hushing him gently. 

“We’re not angry at you, love,” Hunith says softly, curling into her husband’s side and stroking the nest of black hair sticking out of the top of the blankets, which is the only part of Merlin to be seen now that he’s burrowed himself deeper in them. “We only want you to be happy, and having the love of a soulmate is the happiest feeling in the world. We’re just sad that you’ll miss out on that.” 

Merlin comes up for air, gasping and shivering with sobs. 

“I- I’m s- suh- _so- ruh -ry_.” He cries harder. Balinor pulls him closer and sighs. 

“We know, son,” he says. “We’re sorry too.” 

The two parents exchange a single, mournful look, and hold their distraught child, both silently praying that he won’t completely miss out on love as he grows up. 

* * *

Merlin and Arthur never really interact after that, Arthur being a whole year older and whole bag of dicks in general, so Merlin is quite happy to avoid him throughout Primary School, apart from during sports day, where he takes great joy in trouncing his stupid ex-soulmate in the egg-and-spoon race every single year (and no, he does not _cheat_ , Arthur, how does someone even cheat at carrying an egg with a spoon?). Then Arthur buggers off to some toffish all-boys private Grammar School and Merlin doesn’t think twice about it or him, let alone whether or not they’ll ever see each other again. 

And that’s that. 

* * *

...Until it isn’t. 

Merlin’s in Year Nine, now, and is, all-in-all, extremely grown-up. This is what he keeps telling Will - his Dad’s nineteen year old co-worker - anyway, while he helps lift the wheelies onto Kilgharrah’s side so that they can be emptied, because apparently Will still thinks it’s acceptable to treat him like he’s a toddler. 

“I’m just sayin’, Merls,'' Will grunts, kicking a box of recycling towards Kilgharrah, but miscalculating and sending milk bottles spilling all over the curb. “ _Shit_ \- help me out here, woulja? Anyway, what was I… Ah. Yeah. I was gonna say, I’d have to be proper _bonkers_ to get you a fake ID. And do I look bonkers to you? ‘Doesn’t matter that I had my first at your age,” he says as Merlin opens his mouth to protest, “the guy who got it for me didn’t have Hunith breathin’ down his bloomin’ neck when he did, and I, for one, don’t have a death wish. Besides, you’re a kid. I mean,” he snorts, “you’ve never even had a _girlfriend_ , before.”

Merlin frowns. 

“What does a girlfriend have to do with anything?” 

“A girlfriend - would you _give me fuckin’ hand_ , Jesus Christ -” Merlin kneels and begins chucking bottles into the box with a huff “-A girlfriend is like a... what d’you call it, a coming of age? A… Ah!” He clicks. “A right of passage!” 

“...What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It _means_ , Merlin, that your first kiss, first date, first _shag_ -” Merlin gags at Will’s wiggled brows “-whatever... They’re _milestones_ , yeah? They’re, like…” He chucks a bottle from a distance with a flick of his wrist. It lands slap-bang into the box and he whoops triumphantly. “When you have your first girlfriend, it’s like you’ve officially grown up.” 

“Aren’t birthdays the milestones for growing up?” 

Will waves him off. 

“Well, _yeah_ , but you’re not, like, properly older unless you’ve snogged a girl.” He side-eyes Merlin with something that’s meant to be casualness. “Or a guy, if you’re into that. Nothin’ wrong if you are.” 

“Um.” Merlin blinks. “Thanks. I guess. But.” He pauses. Frowns. “Do I _have_ to kiss someone to be grown up?” 

“Uh…” Will frowns too. “I mean… haven’t you got your eye on anyone?” 

Merlin thinks about it. Does he? Does he… _want_ to kiss anyone? 

Sure, he knows it’s something his classmates are plenty invested in. He’s heard - at great length - about the joy of eating someone else’s tongue straight out of their mouth like they're the raw oysters he’d had when on holiday in Brighton last Summer that had caused him to throw up anything he’d eaten for the next three days. Needless to say, he’s never really seen the appeal. 

“...Not really, no.” 

“...Ever _had_ your eye on anyone?”

Merlin opens his mouth. Closes it. Shakes his head. 

“ _Seriously?_ ” Will blurts, goggling at him. Then he doubles over, cackling into the box of bottles. “Mate - _mate_ , have your _balls_ even dropped yet?” 

Merlin goes bright red, crawls into Kilgharrah and refuses to help Will clean up the rest of the spilled recycling.

It’s curled up, sulking in the passenger seat, that he notices a blackened mark on his wrist. He doesn’t think much of it, at first - bin collection is dirty work, after all - but when he goes to wipe at it with a crumpled Kleenex, he sees that it isn’t a smudge of grime or oil, but rather a string of words in a chicken-scratched approximation of cursive. He squints, reading: 

“ _Oh my God, you’re a bin man?_ ”

He frowns. He doesn’t remember writing it on himself - not that it’s even his handwriting, nor either of his parents’ or Will’s, and they’re the only people he’s been close to since he’d woken up that morning, at which point his wrist had definitely been bare. 

Which means that it’s a soulmate mark; one of those ones where you get the first words your soulmate says to you when you meet inscribed on your skin. 

But that doesn’t make sense, because he’d rejected his soulmate nine years previous. 

...Unless you can get another one? 

Ugh. 

The words themselves aren’t exactly… false, per se, though at thirteen, he’s only really a tagalong to whoever between his Dad and Will is dropping him at school on that particular day for a few days a week. The way the question is phrased, however, gives him the impression that his soulmate (and he _really_ hates the mental sound of that word on his mental tongue once again) is less than impressed by his perceived profession. Which is stuck-up and wankerish and already pushes them towards the Rejection Pile along with Arthur Prat-sack Pendragon in Merlin’s mind. 

But, then again - benefit of the doubt, and all that - they could just be really excited about bin men. 

* * *

They’re not just excited about bin men. 

A handful of streets down, and they’ve emerged from squat troupes of council houses into an elegantly curved row of terraced, Georgian homes, wrapped around a trimmed, emerald lawn that’s dotted with prissy little flower beds and willowy silver birches. 

Merlin feels thoroughly out of place, but hops out of Kilgharrah anyway, trudging over to the bins at the nearest house and hoping to avoid eye contact with any snooty-nosed noser peering through the drapes as though their glare will drive away the scum who are kindly ridding them of their scum (Merlin has to count to ten about ten times in his head to keep his cool while chugging away on this train of thought). He’s just latched onto the handle of a brown wheelie when a voice calls from somewhere above his head: 

“Oh my God, you’re a _bin man?_ ” 

Yep. Definitely not just excited about bin men. Maybe excited that Merlin was there to _ridicule_ for being a pseudo-bin man, but not just about bin men themselves. 

Merlin tilts his head up to holler: “So what if I am, knob’ead?” 

And then his eyes meet a pair of blue ones, set in a face that’s slowly growing horrified the more Merlin stares. 

It’s a very familiar face.

  
Unfortunately. 

(There’s a brief joy at knowing the word “knobhead” had been etched into Arthur’s skin, before it blows up like a dumpster fire the minute the prat in question opens his stupid mouth.) 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Arthur Pendragon screeches from the first floor balcony of his fancy-ass house, looking frantically between his wrist and Merlin’s equally outraged expression. “You _again?_ ” 

“‘Pretty sure _I’m_ the one who drew the short straw here-” 

“I get _two chances_ at a soulmate and both times I’m saddled with the same mangy _gutter gremlin?!_ ”

  
Merlin finds himself consumed with a sudden, spitting rage. 

“Well, _fuck_ _you, too!_ I didn’t want you back then, and I _sure_ as _fuck_ don’t want you now!” 

There are residents poking their heads out of doors, gaping openly and tutting in disapproval at the grimy child screaming profanity in the middle of their pristine street, but Merlin is far too worked up to give a hoot. “In _fact,_ ” he yells, slamming his fist on the top of the bin lid in place of Arthur’s stupid, too-far-away-to-deck face, “I _reject_ you! Again!”

“Yeah? Well, I rejected you first! In my head!” Because even nine years later, he’d still rather sound like a twit than be upstaged, apparently. 

“Well-” Merlin falters. “Good!” 

“Fine!” 

“ _Fine!_ ” 

Then, in a bizarre reenactment of their last mutual rejection, they both turn on their heel and storm off in opposite directions. 

It’s only back in Kilgharrah (Merlin considers spilling the entirety of the truck’s contents onto the prim public lawn, but doesn’t want Will to lose his job if he gets blamed, and so doesn’t) that Merlin remembers how his parents had reacted the last time he’d rejected his soulmate, and realises that, once again, he’d been a bit rash. It seems the Universe has rewarded his rashness with a rash in place of the soulwords, he thinks as he stares at the peeling, red skin where it had been, like some sort of cosmic slap on the wrist. Merlin thinks that it’s a bit unfair that he’s getting punished for rejecting what had already been a punishment. 

Thinking of punishments… 

...He doesn’t have to tell his parents about it, does he? 

It’s not like he’d _want_ to be paired off with Arthur Pendragon, so even if he _hadn’t_ rejected him again, he still would’ve avoided him like the plague, and the whole soulmate thing would’ve been moot anyway. 

And there’s no evidence that he’d even _had_ a soulmate again… 

He decides not to tell them. 

Besides, he muses with a small laugh to himself, who’d even believe him if he told them he’d had the same soulmate more than once? No one, that’s who. 

He doesn’t think much more on the topic after that. 

* * *

In fact, Merlin doesn’t truly think about soulmates again until three years later, when he’s at TGI Fridays with Gwen and Lancelot, scanning the menu and expertly tuning out the sound of their enthusiastic snogging. An uncomfortable cough to his right makes him lift his head. 

“Are you, uh-” The waiter eyeballs Merlin, very obviously trying not to stare at the couple going at it on the other side of the booth. Merlin gazes back serenely. “Are you ready to, um. Order?” 

“Ah…” He briefly checks the menu again. “Yeeees, I’ll have the Fridays Vegan Burger with… A Coke, maybe? Hmmm, no, actually... make that an Appletizer. Oh!” He clicks. “And garlic bread. _Obviously_.” 

“Right.” The waiter coughs, scribbling down the last order. “And, um.” Their eyes flick to the side, then back to Merlin, spotty skin flushing crimson and lips pursing. Their shoulders are almost touching their ears with how tightly they’re holding themself. Merlin waits, watching them patiently with a polite smile. Finally, in a very fast, very high-pitched voice, they ask: “Wouldyourfriendslikeanything?” 

“Oh!” Merlin exclaims, shaking his head and slapping his forehead in a “silly me”-type fashion, and goes back to check the menu. “Hmmmm… A couple of Kiddie fish fingers with... Ah, with potato smileys, if you please.” 

“Great!” the waiter squeaks. “Brilliant choice, that’ll be with you shortly.” 

Merlin waits until the waiter has speedwalked about two tables-worth of distance away, before he calls out again. 

“Oh, sorry - waiter?”

  
The waiter stiffens and turns very, very slowly. They shuffle back to their table with a smile that’s far too twitchy at the edges to be real, eyes far too wet not to not be on the verge of a breakdown. “Sorry to bother you,” Merlin simpers, the epitome of apologetic, “I just forgot to order a couple of froot shoots for my companions.” He waves in Gwen and Lance’s general direction, the waiter’s eyes automatically following the gesture and then snapping away, face settling into the grieving expression of someone who’s innocence has been stripped away with sandpaper in the span of a second. “Orange, please, if you have it, but put it in a bottle meant for apple and blackcurrant.” He leans in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a stage whisper. “They refuse to drink out of anything that isn’t purple. You know how kids are.” 

Mechanically, the waiter nods, then turns and almost sprints back in the direction of the kitchens. 

Merlin turns to Gwen and Lance. Their hands are resting on the table, intertwined, the backs of both adorned with matching tattoos of two shooting stars crossing paths.

Soulmarks depicting star-crossed lovers. How cheesy.

Merlin coughs in an attempt to draw them away from their avid game of tonsil lacrosse. It doesn’t work. He rolls his eyes, though he’s woefully unsurprised. 

Resorting to drastic measures, he crawls under the table and wriggles his way up the other side until he’s wedged himself between TGI Fridays’ resident Romeo and Juliet. He smiles and folds his arms up behind his head, settling back in the seat.

“Afternoon, lads,” he says drily. “Long time no see.” 

“ _Merlin_ ,” Gwen whines, attempting to crawl over Merlin’s lap, as if the only air she can possibly breathe to survive is that directly from Lancelot’s lungs. Lancelot looks all too happy to be of service. 

So Merlin takes yet another drastic measure and plants himself in Lancelot’s lap, toeing off his trainers and shoving his feet under Gwen’s thigh, his own lanky bent legs creating an impenetrable barrier between the soulmates. Gwen levels him with a scathing glare. He meets it with an angelic smile. 

“So,” he says slowly, “nice weather we’re having, huh?” 

Lancelot sighs melodramatically into his ear. Merlin responds by nestling closer into his friend’s (unfairly ripped, holy _shit_ ) chest, growing more than a little smug at Gwen’s unmasked jealousy. 

“I didn’t expect this from you,” Gwen grumbles, pouting and sitting back with crossed arms, “trying to thwart _destiny_.”

“Oh, please,” Merlin snorts, rolling his eyes, “the only thing being thwarted here are the other customers’ attempts at having a pleasant meal, thanks to your gross PDA.” 

“It’s not gross,” Gwen snaps, “it’s _love between soulmates_.” 

“That’s all well and good, Gwen, but think of the children, yeah?” 

“And why _shouldn’t_ the children know of our love, Merlin?” 

“I’m not saying they _shouldn’t_ know of it, I’m saying they - _no one_ \- should have to be subjected to your _tender lovin_ ’ right in front of their chicken tenders.” He gazes at her solemnly, war flashbacks of family meals with Balinor and Hunith in his mind’s eye. “Trust me. I would know.” 

“It’s not his fault he doesn’t understand, Gwen,” Lancelot says gently, as Gwen opens her mouth to argue again. “He doesn’t _have_ a soulmate.”

Merlin tilts his head to the side to raise an eyebrow that his Uncle Gaius would be proud of at his friend. He knows it wasn’t meant to be spiteful - Lancelot’s too good of an egg to even think something _vaguely_ mean - nor condescending, but Merlin can’t help but hear it in that tone anyway. 

No one knows about his severed bond apart from his parents (and certainly no one knows it’d been severed _twice_ ), only that he doesn’t currently have a soulmate and is therefore A Poor Dear Who Will Never Know Love So Hey Let's Substitute It With Pity And Patronising Pinches To The Cheek (he cannot _wait_ to shed his baby fat and gain his mother’s cheekbones so he can _cut_ the next old hag who even tries). He almost wants to scream to all and sundry that no, it was a _conscious decision_ and he doesn’t _want_ a soulmate, that he even got to make the decision _twice_ , and _still_ made the same choice... 

But then he’ll only get horror instead of pity, because who would do something so horrible as rejecting a soulmate? _What, is he some sort of sociopath?_

He glares at a teen who’s so whipped by his other half that he’s practically the Mr Whippy’s 99p Flake of whipped people and tells him, flatly: 

“I don’t need a soulmate.” 

And. Yep. There’s the sympathy in Lancelot’s earnest, doe eyes. Merlin feels a hand rest on his knee. He meets Gwen’s eye to see that her gaze is an exact mirror of her soulmate’s. How cute. 

“You’re right, Merlin,” she says softly, and Merlin loves her, he really does, absolutely sodding _adores_ Guinevere Smith with his heart, soul and mind, but also can’t help but feel like she’s asking to be decked right now. “There are plenty of other people who don’t have one. Like my English Lit tutor, Leon!” 

“Exactly,” Lancelot puts in, apparently eager to get in on the deckability party, “You’ll probably meet others like you at Camelot.” 

Camelot, aka Camelot Hill Grammar School, one of the best secondary schools in their county and the place all three of them were going for Sixth Form that September (Merlin is still convinced his acceptance to the school is a fluke). 

“And?” Merlin deadpans. “What, am I supposed to forge a support group for Universe-Appointed Loners?” 

“Um - well…” Gwen and Lancelot exchange eye contact, having a silent conversation through facial expressions as though they’re that telepathic type of soulmate who hear each other’s thoughts all the damn time. Merlin cringes at the mere thought. “Because they won’t have soulmates… and _you_ don’t have a soulmate…” 

“There’d be nothing stopping you from - er - pursuing a relationship with someone… like you.” 

And now they’re finishing each other’s sentences. Ugh. 

They mean well, he knows. They remind him of his parents, really (and not just because of the TGI Fridays Exhibitionist Trysts), in that they “only want you to be happy, Merlin, don’t you want to be happy?”. The thing is, he _is_ happy. He’s happy riding around in Kilgharrah with his Dad and Will, he’s happy when he’s fucking around with Gwen and Lancelot (even if they take _fucking around_ to mean something different to him most of the time), he’s happy when he’s giggling over nicked newsagent vodka with Gwaine in the kiddie park behind their school, he’s happy when he’s napping through Uncle/Mr Gaius’ Biology lessons (less so, though, when he’s caught and given detention), he’s even happy at his dull-as-all-heck Saturday job playing lifeguard to Primary School brats at the lido, because Freya is always there with a damp set of Uno cards for the first hour before she has to head home. 

He’s thought about dating, obviously (who hasn’t, when it’s all your hormone-hammered peers care to talk about?) and the thought of having someone who understands him, who loves him unconditionally, even someone who’ll hold his hand, or hold _him_ while curled up in front of the hearth with grey hair, shortbread and a scrabble board commandeered by a snoozing cat forty, fifty, sixty years down the line, isn’t all that unappealing. 

But he’d be happy to do that with any of his friends. And in none of the scenarios he tries to picture for himself does he imagine kissing, sex or marriage with any sort of longing. 

He just… doesn’t feel the _need_ for all that. 

So what would be the point of a soulmate, or any sort of substitute? 

But he gets the feeling that he’ll break Gwen and Lancelot’s heart (singular, because they act like they’re two halves of one whole, like in that old Greek Myth about four-legged, two-headed people zapped in half by an insecure Zeus) if he says as much, so he just hums a half-hearted (because that’s clearly what they believe _he_ is) “maybe”, right in time for the waiter to come back with their food. 

Merlin perks up at the arrival and beams beatifically at the waiter, who seems even more horrified now to find that he’s joined in on the canoodling. 

“Thank you,” he chirps, as the waiter pretty much drops their plates onto the table with a clatter. He snuggles closer to Lancelot. 

“Enjoy your meal,” the waiter stutters, eyes darting all over the place, unable to find any non-heart-shaped-eyes to make contact with. Merlin waits until they meet his, then lets his lips spread into a languid grin. 

“Oh,” he drawls, sending a smouldering glance at a bemused Lancelot, licking his lips for good measure. “I’m _sure_ I will.” 

The waiter squeaks and scurries off, just as Merlin strokes a teasing finger down Lancelot’s jaw. Lancelot pats Merlin’s cheek back unsurely. 

“ _Ugh!_ ” Gwen exclaims. Merlin peers over at her. She’s shooting her froot shoot a look of unbridled disgust. “Why the heck does my blackcurrant taste like _orange?_ ” 

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone means well, which is... a whole other kinda irritating. Poor Merlin, really. 
> 
> Please Kudos and Comment! It feeds me motivation!


End file.
